Chez Realtor
by Webster
Summary: The boys crash in a deserted house while Sam recovers from the flu.


The last credit card stopped working two days ago, and when he looked in the post office box in Chicago, the new ones hadn't come in yet. Or maybe they'd been seized. He'd have to be careful, coming back in to check that box again. For now, leaving aside the fifty in seed money for the next poker game, they had fifteen dollars and sixty-three cents, which would buy a couple meals, if they weren't picky.

But Dean's real problem was sitting in the passenger seat. Sam had been sniffling for a few days, but a night in the chilly car had apparently allowed the bug to really take hold. He was coughing with a nasty, harsh sound, a little wet, and his cheeks were flushed red, though he wouldn't let Dean check his temperature.

In short, Sam needed a warm place to sleep, and he needed it now. Which was why Dean was house-hunting.

There. For-sale sign. Secluded location, not so big it would have serious security, but big enough it might actually be heated even empty.

He parked half a block away and went around the back to break in.

He was greeted with the barest touch of heat, but the thermostat immediately responded when he turned it up. The lights worked, and there was no alarm. There was even a table in the kitchen, covered with a designer tablecloth, so maybe…

A bed. With actual blankets. Dean Winchester had hit the empty-house jackpot.

He opened the garage and pulled the car in. Sam, drowsing in the passenger seat, coughed and raised his head.

"Chez Realtor again?" Sam whispered hoarsely, sarcasm coming through despite the swollen vocal cords.

"Chez Realtor at your service!" Dean grinned.

Sam wandered in and sat down at the kitchen table, dropping his head into his hands and leaning his elbows on the designer cloth, shivering a bit.

"There's a bed upstairs," Dean offered.

Sam waved him off. "Just lemme sit for a minute." He rubbed at his nose. No doubt the heat coming up was making it tickle.

Sometimes his little brother could get damned stubborn when he was sick. Which came in handy when he, say, got out of bed with a 103 fever just to save Dean's ass. But when no one's ass needed saving except possibly Sam's own, it was a wee bit inconvenient.

"Well, you're kind of dirty."

"Yeah, back atcha." Sam rasped, setting off another coughing fit. Dean winced at the sound of it.

"Well, anyway, I think there's hot water in this house, and neither of us has had a shower in over two days. Shall we?"

On the way up the stairs, Dean managed to crowd in closely enough to get a hand on Sam's neck. He was definitely feverish, but it wasn't high enough to be serious. The look Sam gave him at the top of the stairs suggested his sneaky temperature reading wasn't sneaky enough, but Dean had no fear of his brother's Death Glares. Even when artificially enhanced with fever glaze.

They reached the bathroom together, dropped their duffels. Dean pulled out the spare towel he usually kept around…. and stopped. In the far corner of the bathtub was one of the most glorious tubs he'd ever seen. It was bigger than some beds he'd slept in over the years, complete with jacuzzi jets.

Sam was already staring at it, naked longing in his eyes as he shivered.

"Okay, rinse off the stink first," Dean ordered. "Real quick."

Thirty seconds later, Sam was minimally clean and sitting in the tub as it filled with warm water. Dean wrapped the bathmat around his shoulders to keep him warm.

"Oh!" Dean said aloud, then ran to the basement to turn up the water heater before the hot water could run out.

When he came back, Sam was lying almost completely flat in the warm water, head propped against the side of the tub. He coughed, softer and wetter this time, as if the steam was beginning to move the congestion out of his chest.

When Dean reappeared, he opened just one eye.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think you can let me finish my bath like a big boy?"

"Sure." Dean figured he could leave him alone for at least ten minutes before Sam was at any real risk of falling asleep. There wasn't a microwave downstairs, nor any pots, but the oven worked, and he managed to re-heat the foil-wrapped chicken. About the time it finished, he heard Sam dragging himself out of the bathtub, then blowing his nose repeatedly.

When they left, Sam made up the bed again, with perfect hospital corners, and turned the heat back down.


End file.
